Recieving
by aerinoutlander
Summary: The world is made of two types of people "receivers" and "suppliers". One cannot survive without the other. What would Sherlock do with this handicap? An AU adaptation of the BBC Sherlock.
1. The meeting

Thank you for choosing to read this story. This chapter has been unbetta-ed, so its a little rough. It follows most of the BBC Sherlock with key changes. Disclaimer: I do not own anything of Sherlock...and I got the idea from a manga called Shinkuu I will change this up as the story progresses. Please Read and review!

* * *

The hot dessert sun beat down on the unit of soldiers. One group of soldiers manned the machine gun to provide cover for the rest of the units rushing in. One of the soldiers went down from a shot in the leg and a medic rushed over covered by the others in the unit. An insurgent popped up behind a wall to take a quick shot at the troops. He then ducked down hiding his body among the debris. The soldiers checked to see if everyone in their unit was whole. One man noticed the medic went down clutching his shoulder as he crumpled to the dirt. "God, Oh God!" the medic cried from the pain. Meanwhile, the others in the unit rushed to cover him as they dragged him and the other wounded under cover.

Eyes snapped open, shooting forward, the man's eyes rapidly blinked from the throws of his nightmare. Looking around, his eyes took in the dimly lit utilitarian hotel room. Trying to calm his breathing, he scanned the hotel room searching for, in his mind, enemies. Seeing none of the enemies he saw in his dream, the man laid back down with one arm behind his head and the other on his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut trying to control his breathing even more by taking deep breaths. The soldier grimaced as the memories from his nightmare still boiled at the surface and he eventually rolled over to sit on the side of his bed.

When morning came, he limped over to his cane which sat against the desk and made his way over to the kitchen. The soldier made himself a cup of tea and grabbed himself from one of the shelves in a kitchenette. He made his way back to the room with his cane and set the mug, then the apple on the desk. After, he took a seat as he put the cane to the side. He opened the one of the drawers and extracted a red laptop. Quietly, he turned it on as he sipped from his mug. He clicked through the programs to open his web browser. It opened to a pre-home paged blog entitled 'The personal blog of John H. Watson' and a cursor blinked, waiting for someone to type a post. After what seemed like ages, the man sighed for he could not find it in himself to type about his day. His mind wandered towards a small calendar sitting to the side with a small appointment marked on that day. He saw that it was almost time to go so he quickly shoved the laptop closed and into the desk again.

When John got to the office for his appointment, he signed in with the secretary and sat in one of the plastic chairs lining the walls of the small waiting room. He felt annoyed that he had to come here for something he already knew about, but he also knew he needed to go to these appointments to get a receiver assigned to him as a permanent partner. The only way an ex-soldier could get one is to go through the cheap charade induced for the ease of mind of the masses for no one would want a broken person as _their _permanent supplier. Sighing, he eventually shook his head to get rid of such thoughts and to clear his mind of being able to get a permanent supplier.

The receptionist eventually called him in to meet his therapist. The soldier, irritated by the pain in his leg grabbed harshly at his cane to get up. He, then, seemed to have realized what he did and gave a hesitant smile to the receptionist. John hoped she would forget his previous action and she would not report it back to his therapist as a sign of the therapy not working. After, he limped slowly into the therapist's room trying to keep the conflicting emotions off his face and not be a wonderland for his therapist. John spotted a chair on the other side of the room facing the chair his therapist already sat. She watched as John sat down heavily in the chair.

"How's your blog going?" she asked.

"Ya, good," answered John looking uncomfortable just as he said it. He cleared his throat, "Very good."

The therapist paused looking at him, "You haven't written a word. Have you?" She said this in more of the form of a statement than a question like she heard all this before.

John by that time was feeling even less genial than he did before. "You just wrote, 'still has trust issues'"

"And you read my handwriting upside down," she said pointing at him with her pen 'Well she didn't become a therapist being a pushover' John thought a little put out she had a ready answer. Mean while, the therapist went on, "See what I mean?" John didn't answer. 'Shit,' the thought, 'there goes my chance.'

"John," the therapist said earnestly, "You're a soldier. It's going to take you a while to adjust to civilian life and writing a blog about everything that happens to you will honestly help you."

John stared at her as she said this, knowing now his therapist had no intention of getting him the go ahead to a permanent receiver. "Nothing ever happens to me, "he answered her softly closing himself off. His therapist noticed this. She eventually after a few tries to get him to open up gave him informed him she had already made appointments at Barts for him to have temporary receivers under supervision.

* * *

A secretary talked on the phone, while she walked the length of the office, "Get a cab," she said exasperated to the man over the phone.

"I never get a cab," he explained clearly irritated by how their conversation had been going.

"I love you," she said softly into the receiver.

"When?" the man asked still irritated. The woman insisted, "Get a cab!" The man shut off his phone as he walked out the station.

Minutes later the man looked at a small bottle filled with a pill. Then, he looked up as he chose a pill and put it between his teeth. He swallowed the pill and slid forward out of the office chair twitching and gasping for breath. Finally he stopped and his empty eyes stared out at London through the huge office windows.

* * *

The woman read off her paper sobbing as she gave a press conference about the man's death. "My husband, my supplier, was a happy man. Who lived life to the full. Who loved his family and his work and that he should have taken his life this way is a mystery and a shock to all who knew him." The woman that was on the phone with the man earlier quietly cried as she sat to the side.

* * *

Two men ran to try to get out of the rain that just started. One spotted a taxi coming up behind them so he tried to hail it by running out into the road towards it. The taxi, however, drove by leaving the man in the rain. The man fed up with the cold rain soaking his clothes told his friend he would go back and get himself an umbrella.

"You can share mine," the friend yelled back.

"Two bits alright?" the man insisted as he ran a few blocks then slowed to a walk. His friend rose up his umbrella to check the time and decided to go after him.

The man who had forgotten his umbrella had a small bottle with two pills in it. Grimacing he unscrewed the top and took the pill only to die in a center.

* * *

Party lights flared as a dance beat vibrated through the rooms. The woman glowered as she stalked towards her co-worker.

"Still dancing?" he asked as more of statement of exasperation.

"Ya, if you want to call it that," she bit back in the same tone.

"Did you get the car keys?" She dangled them in front of him. "Got them out of her bag," she answered back. He strained out a smile and looked towards the dance floor.

"Where is she?" he asked looking around.

Meanwhile, the woman they were talking about ruffled through her purse trying to find her keys outside the building. When she couldn't find them, she sighed and looked over her parked car towards the road. She thought that maybe she could get a cab since she couldn't find them. After she got to her next destination, she sobbed as she reached for a bottle with two pills on the desk.

* * *

"The body of Beth Davenport was found late last night in a building site inside greater London." The female officer informed the press. "Preliminary investigations suggest that this was suicide." The officer on her right flickered his eyes in discontent with the suggestion, but he did not say anything. "We can confirm that this apparent suicide closely resembles those of Sir Jeffery Patterson and James Philamor. In the light of this, these instances are now being treated as linked. The investigation is ongoing, but Detective Inspector Lestrade will take questions now." The news reporters shouted and raised their hands in a frenzy to get a word from the DI.

One reporter finally got through the rabble. "Detective Inspector, how can suicides be linked?" he asked in a reedy voice.

"Well, they all took the same poison. Ahm. They were all found in places they had no reason to be." Lestrade took a deep breath and then went on, "None of them has shown any prior indication."

The reporter interrupted before he could finish, "You can't have serial suicides!"

Lestrade still uncomfortable snapped back, "Well apparently you _can_."

A new reporter asked, "These three people, is there nothing that links them?"

"There's no link been found yet, _but_ we're looking for it. There _has_ to be one," As he finished all the phones started to go off in the room. All the texts came up as one word, 'Wrong'. The female officer panicked as she read hers and tried to start damage control.

"If you all got texts, please ignore them," she shouted out.

The reporter that first questioned Lestrade said puzzled, " Just says wrong." He wondered why she would panic over a small text.

"Yeah, well just ignore that. If there are no more questions for Detective Inspector Lestrade, I'm going to bring the session to an end."

The second reporter spoke up again, "If they're suicides, what are you investigating?"

Lestrade spoke as if it was obvious, "as I say these suicides are clearly linked….. Um…. It's an unusual situation. You got our best people investigating." All the phones in the room went off with the same text as the first.

"Says 'wrong' again"

"One more question!" The officer yelled out ignoring the reporter.

A woman piped up, "Is there any chance these are murders, and if they are, is this the work of a serial killer?"

Lestrade was getting more nervous, "I know that you'd like writing about this, but these do appear to be suicides. We know the difference. The...Um…the poison was clearly self administered."

"Yes, but if they are murders, how do people keep themselves safe?" the woman insisted.

Lestrade was a little fed up at the questioning at this point, "Well don't commit suicide." As he said it he thought 'well you're spending too much time around him…' The officer next to Lestrade muttered to him reminding him who the reporter is working for. He tried to cover his mess-up, "Obviously this is a frightening time for people, but all anyone has to do is exercise reasonable precautions. We are all as safe as we want to be." The phones for a third time went off again with the same text to everyone but one. Lestrade's phone read 'You know where to find me- SH'. He sighed as he read it and swung it into his pocket and out of sight so no one could catch a glimpse. Lestrade then proceeded to thank the conference and got up leaving. The officer that sat next to him followed.

"You got to stop him from doing that. Its making us all look like idiots," she said waspishly.

He ruffled his hair as he irritatedly walked on answering back to her, "If you tell me how he does it. I'll stop it." He then proceeded on by himself as she looked huffingly after him.

* * *

John had finally gotten out of his therapy session and decided to go for a walk frustrated at his inability. Despite the limp though, his walk still held a soldier's march left over from drilling. Just as he passed a man looking up from the paper, the man called out to him.

"John," the man exclaimed as he got up from the bench, "John Watson." John, finally, turned around. "Stamford," The man said placing his hand on his chest, "Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together." John slightly hesitantly agreed and exchanged pleasantries with the man. Mike knowingly said, "I know I gone fat."

"No," John lied as he didn't look him in the eye.

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened?"

John paused for a minute glowering over the question.

"I got shot," he flippantly answered. Stamford sensed there was more to it but he decided not to question further.

"Right, well want to get some coffee? There is a café not far from here. We can get something there and sit back here," Stamford asked.

John thought for a minute and hesitantly agreed he could go for a cuppa. Together, they ordered, received their coffees, and made their way back to the park benches where John first met Stamford. Stamford looked nervously at John slightly afraid to step on anymore landmines that seemed to riddle this new John. John took a long drag of his coffee.

"Still at Barts then?" John asked after he embraced the warmness of his coffee.

"Teaching now," Stamford answered back jovely, "Yeah, bright young things like we used to be. God I hate them." John politely laughed with him thinking that his friend had no idea. "What about you? Just staying in town? Getting yourself sorted?"

Can't afford London on an army pension."

"Ah, you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know"

"I'm not the John Watson you know, "John snapped.

Stamford said nothing as it seemed to be another landmine. He took a long sip of his cup while John tightened his left hand to still the tremors that were shaking his cup. Stamford then had another thought.

"Couldn't Harry help?"he asked hesitantly because he knew their relationship. John almost gave a snort. "Yeah, like that ever going to happen," John scoffolded.

"I dunno get a flat share or something?" Stamford tried again.

"And what? Who'd want me as a flat mate?" Stamford gave a laugh and started to grin.

"What?" John asked glaring a little.

Stamford unrepentantly replied, "You're the second person to say that to me today."

John decided to bite onto this new information as if it was a treat, "Whose the first?"

Stamford just grinned and sad, "Come on!" He jumped up and started to walk into the direction of Barts. John limped behind him keeping up with his walk. 'Well,' thought John, 'If this doesn't work out I can just donate as a supplier today since we are going there.'

As both the men walks, John inquired about Mike's supplier Elaina.

"Did you meet with Elaina, today?" asked John politely.

"That old girl?" Stamford grinned," I meet her earlier this morning before one of my classes. She's doing well… Thinking about moving closer of course to make everything easier. Complains about the distance a lot."

"Oh?" asked John trying to make small talk while wondering where they were going.

John knew partners, suppliers and receivers are generally paired up as kids. Whole scientific branches were dedicated to this quirk of biology. In older days, partners had a hard time pairing up as kids so there used to be a lot of problems with power rejection among others. Finally it was refined into a database now to pair up kids with the same wavelength for a smooth energy flow. John himself thought this quirk was a nuisance. Kids around the ages 3-5 either lost or generated too much energy and the only way this could be fixed is if the two opposing factors exchange between themselves. If a partnership did not do a power transfer, the people would eventually fall into a painful coma and in some cases if not saved, die. Suppliers was the official name for people who had too much energy and Receivers are those that have no energy. People joking the suppliers 'chargers' and the receivers 'batteries' in slang terms.

Stamford had his supplier before John knew him. John suspected they were together since the transition too. John's own receiver separated with him before he went to war. She found another supplier to fit her so the transitions was very smooth.

Mike went on with no knowledge of John's thoughts, "You know how hard it is to find time now a days. She just got a job near here too t make charging times easier. Her apartment is still an a- ah here we are," waving John into the door next to him. John looked around. The door they went through led to more of the researching part of the hospital.

"This person of yours, is here? Not some intern is it?" John inquired.

"No, no," Stamford shook his head and gave a chuckle. "But he is up your alley. Come on, he is in one of the labs." Stamford then led the way to the elevators. John followed him in a companionable silence. When they stopped before a lab door, Stamford knocked on the door before opening it. John gave himself a nod as he followed him in. He limped to the middle of the front of the room taking in the lab and what used to be its sole occupant. He ignored the person at the moment as he addressed Stamford.

"Bit different from my day," he commented swinging around to address Stamford.

"Oh, you have no idea," answered back Stamford.

At this time the occupant had moved to a different instrument and addressed Stamford, "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There is no signal on mine." Mike took a step towards him and like an old conversation that's been done many times before asked him, "And what's wrong with the landline?"

"I prefer to text," came the short answer.

Mike didn't even feel his jacket before saying, "Sorry, it's in my coat."

John at this time remembered he had a mobile and dug for it. "Ah here use mine."

"Ah, Thank you," the dark haired man said glancing over to Stamford as if he was not used to giving thanks. He walked over to John to grab the mobile as John steadily held it out.

"Old friend of mine, John Watson," said Stamford pointing to John. By this time, the man had already reached John. He grabbed the phone and started punching in numbers. John glanced at Stamford and thought, 'Really, Mike?'

Just then, the man asked a he was still texting, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John was shocked for a minute. He did not know where this question came from. He minutely turned his head to regard the dark man again, "Sorry?" he asked.

"Which one is it?" The dark haired man emphasized, "Afghanistan or Iraq?"

John glanced at Mike who gave a smug smirk. Seeing that John hesitantly decided to answer, "Afghanistan." He shifted his weight, "But how did you-?"

"Ah! Molly," the man exclaimed looking at the door behind John, "coffee! Thank you. What happened to your lipstick?" The woman paused and in a flighty sort of voice replied it wasn't working for her. John frowned slightly s he listened to the two of them converse over him. "Really? I thought it was a big improvement. You're mouths too small now," the man said turning around and gesturing as he went back towards his seat. John locked a face of disbelief at the man's back. While Molly, John thought, having heard the girl's name grin came to a stop. She hastily squeaked out a goodbye and headed out the door. 'Poor girl,' John thought as he looked towards where she used to stand.

"How do you feel about the violin?" the man asked as John followed the girl's progress out the door. John startled back realizing something was asked to him, "Sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking. Sometimes, I don't talk for days on end. Does that bother you? Potential flat mates should know the worse about each other."

'What? Stamford….' Thought John as he glared at Stamford and barked, "You told him about me?"

Stamford was looking at a vial in an effort to appear like he wasn't enjoying this. "Not a word."

"Then who said anything about flat mates?" asked John focusing back to the man.

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flat mate for, and now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend barely home from military service from Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap," The man explained as he threw on his coat and threaded his scarf.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" John asked again to which the man went on with his information.

"I have a nice place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow at 7 o'clock. Sorry got to dash. Forgot my riding crop in the mortuary." The man whirled towards the door.

John stopped him, "Is that it?" He had raised his voice slightly. The man turned around with a confused look. "Is that what?"

"We only just met going to look for a flat."

The man glanced back at Stamford before acquiring at John, "Problem?"

John grinned slightly as if amused by the misunderstanding and glanced at Stamford who seemed just as amused as he was. John took a deep breath and expelled out, "We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting. I don't even know your name."

"I know you're an army doctor and you been delivered home from Afghanistan. I know you got a brother who's worried about you. You don't go for help because you don't approve of him possibly because he is an alcoholic. More likely he recently walked out on his wife. I also know your therapist thinks you're psychosomatic. Quiet correctly I'm afraid. So I'll just be going don't you think?" He wheeled back out the door but not before popping his head back in to give more information," The name's Sherlock Holmes. And the address is 2-2-1 B Baker Street." With that, he winked and turned out with an afternoon back to Stamford.

'Well that just served me right,' thought John looking at Stamford who said, "Ya he's always like that." John felt the intense desire to grill Stamford for information of what he just walked into. John, however, knew Stamford would not say a word so he bid him good bye and headed to the main part of the hospital. As he headed down the stairs he pulled out a paper handed to him by his therapist's secretary. On the paper, it stated where he could go for a temporary partner along with a note from his therapist for the clinic. It was located on the ground floor of the hospital so he got on the elevator near to where he needed to go.

As the elevator slowly descended, he allowed the thoughts of the man he just met to overwhelm his mind. 'How, how did he know that? Should I meet him? Should I not? What will happen if I don't?' were just some of the thoughts getting through the confusion. Eventually, through the chaos of people getting on and off the same lift, it dinged open for the floor he wanted. He edged out and then hobbled through the maze of hallways till he came to a small office.

The office was built like most reception rooms in the hospital, the frontal walls being nothing but glass. A young secretary, who younger than most medical professionals so John thought he might be a student worker, was moving around behind the desk, taking applications from people going in and out of the room, and filing them in rapid succession. John slowly slid up to the desk embarrassed he was there. He handed over the paper once he noticed that he had the secretary's full attention. The secretary read over it quietly and looked back up.

"Ah, Dr. Watson?" he asked as he bent down to look through what looked like a clutter of papers that littered the desk. He pulled out one file from seemingly nowhere, "It says you have been approved in here. Let me look in the computer and see if we have a match." He paused and tapped lightly on the keys of a desktop next to him. "You are in luck now. There is actually someone that matches close enough to your wavelength to be a full temporary as long as you need it." John knew what he meant. Full temporaries where people who would be a partner for someone or a group of people as long as they did not find a different partner because their partner was unavailable long term. Whereas, the usual temporaries filled in for people when their partner is temporarily unavailable due to sickness of a minute injury. The secretary printed out a piece of file and handed to John, "Here is your receiver and the circumstances as of why." John knew this was just a small statement that you could find in any place and not anything that would break the confidentiality agreements. "Also fill out the bottom with your signature as agreement. I'll call up to the nurses' desk to alert them that you will be there soon. Here is your button to say you are there to be a temporary. Wear it when you go up there and hand it into the nurses when you are done. They will place it in a box for you the next time you need to come too. "

John, by that time, was reading up on his temporary receiver and filling the bottom in. The secretary seemed to not be phased by this and he waved John off with an evening. John heard the dismissal and stopped what he was doing. He then walked out reading the signs to find the ward his new temporary was located. On the way there, he fiddled with the button so it stayed on his lapel but not before he shoved the paper into his jacket pocket. Eventually, he approached the right nurses' station having passed many wards with one on the way. He pulled out the paperwork as he approached and tried to flatten it as the nurse looked him over taking in the button and the papers now in his hand. She saw on the button his name and knew where he should go, for they had not many visitor that day, so she directed him to the correct room and then went back to her work behind the desk.

John eased open the door and looked over his new temporary as she laid across the bed. Her hand was swathed in bandages from the needles forced into her arm for care and the machines attached to her beeped as they blinked out heart rate and dosage control. According to what little information the paper actually said, it said she was in an accident with her supplier and so both were unavailable to each other. John was glad for the small mercy that she was able to regulate her breathing without a pump even though she was in a coma.

He remembered those who had to exchange around the tubes that kept their partner breathing. John grimaced a little at the memory because it was also coupled with his stent in Afghanistan. He felt a twinge, though, that did not belong to his limp. Apparently, he had left it too long with his returning and the excess energy he made had reached a his limit. John pulled his professional mask and leaned over the patient putting his lips to hers. He felt the energy leave in variations of bursts for she was not awake to regulate her gathering of energy. Eventually, he felt empty enough to turn away.

He thanked the person even though she couldn't hear him and headed out the door. The nurse saw him come out she just waved him on after taking the button he had handed her for she was on the phone. John continued on to his hotel room still feeling what he knew would now be the grayness of civilian life, but then he remembered the man in the hospital lab and hoped he would lend color. However John was still apprehensive, so when he got to where he was staying, he sat on the bed and pulled out his phone. John scrolled through the message box to look for the text Sherlock, John remembered he said, sent.

'If brother has green ladder arrest brother. –SH' it said. John saw this and was now intrigued he looked up to see the laptop he was on earlier and did not put away. He logged on the net and went to a search site. There he typed in 'Sherlock Holmes'.

* * *

Well that is all I have now: Reminder Read and Review! Sorry for formatting errors in the document. I'm not used to having to reformat from my programs...well it is my first fanfic too but never that mind.


	2. This is fun?

Hi! Sorry this took so long! I had the dialogue done for the longest time but I didn't know how much I wanted to change or remain the same. Merry what ever it is you celebrate. Here is chapter 2. Please look to the first chapter for the I don't own. This is still un-betad (so there may be some grammer mistakes that are not part of the dialogue) and still going a little by the script. I plan to change next chapter more dialogue and sequences, but pointingly they are just getting to know each other and I think the show dialogue is great for that. I also like to thank some people at the end of the document. I plan to have a short story of John and Sherlock at Christmas time with the theme of a Christmas Carol up tomorrow. There might be some points to whom ever gets it correct as to which song it is. Please Read and Review.

* * *

John blinked open his eyes slowly because he finally felt rested for once since he came back from Afghanistan. He shifted his back to a more comfortable position in an unwillingness to leave the bed, but he rolled his head over to check the time. He saw that he didn't have much time before he had to meet that man, 'Holmes' he thought trying to get used to the name. He rolled over till he sat up stretching, it had also been the longest stretch he has had since before the war. John grabbed his cane that was hung on the nightstand next to the bed and started his morning routine.

During the war he had gotten used to doing his routine under stress that it had become so familiar he could do it in a shorter time now than he ever did before the war. John snorted; well he also was in longer to impress the ladies back then too. After he finished, he went to the kitchen to finish out. Fed full of jam and tea, He decided to do more research on this Holmes starting with the website he looked at last night. He had already discharged yesterday so it wouldn't be much to skip today. As he read further and further into the blog, he only stopped for necessary interruptions. He wondered how a person could know this from so little to go on as the blog was written more like a dry textbook, it explained much but difficult read. As the sun made its way, John looked up and saw it was now time to meet the abrupt Mr. Holmes.

He hobbled out of the room, but not before locking the room down-tight. Though John didn't have many possessions, they were very precious to him, not to mention useful to other people. He thought about his wallet and the very few Euros he possessed. There wasn't enough to get to the end of the block not to mention the few streets to Baker Street so he decided to walk it.

As he walked, he marveled on the seeming change London had while he was gone. It wasn't a directions change or even an image change though there was the occasional shop that had changed locations or names. It was more of a feeling. John remembered soldiers that had gone home on their calls off and come back with stories about how different civilian life became. 'Humph' John thought, 'Just another way, my therapist would boil it all down to PTSD.'

He finally came to Baker Street and started to look at the doors counting down the numbers. 225…223….221….B. He knocked on the door as he heard a hello behind him.

"Ah, Mr. Holmes," he said twisting around seeing the man he met yesterday come from a taxi that just pulled up.

"Sherlock, please," Mr. Holmes said hold out his hand which John shook.

"Well this is a prime stock, must be expensive." John said looking around. He wondered how the man thought they could both afford it.

"Well, Mrs. Hudson, the land lady given me a special deal, owes me a favor.," Sherlock explained standing with his hands behind his back in a relaxed manor, "A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." He seemed to be scanning the road and the sidewalks distracted.

"Wait, you stopped her husband from being executed?" John asked in disbelief.

Sherlock focused on him and told him, "Oh no. I _ensured_ it."

John paused at that new piece of information when the door opened before he could even start to think of a reply. John checked behind him to try to see what Sherlock was looking at earlier, but he did not see anything. At the same time, he heard, "Sherlock," in a grandmotherly voice. He looked back to the door to see his new flat mate giving an old woman dressed in purple a hug.

"Mrs. Hudson," he said backing up, "Dr. John Watson," he waved his hand over to John. John moved over to shake her hand but she waved him on. "Shall we?" asked Sherlock as he followed John in with Mrs. Hudson closing the door behind them. In the foyer, John paused. 'Stairs why are there so many damn stairs in London?' Sherlock passed him as he bounded up the stairs lightly with his curls bouncing along with him. John sighed and slowly made his way up the stairs to the next landing. He, then taking a breath, turned and saw his new flat mate standing in front of a closed door looking pleased with him.

As John approached, Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and swung open the door open. His body was turning gracefully with the doors opening. Sherlock then walked backward and swung away into what John assumed was the kitchen. John took in the room. It was filled with half bins and boxes, of which a union jack pillow rested on one, and books and papers were placed haphazardly on the selves or any surface to service them.

"Oh, this could be very nice," John said, "Very nice indeed." He hobbled over to Sherlock who was standing in the kitchen doorway.

"Yes, yes," said Sherlock looking back at the room and the kitchen, "I think so. My thoughts precisely. So I straight ahead moved in."

At the same time John said, "As soon as we get this rubbish cleaned out." He realized what his flat mate was saying. "Oh." He paused trying to find a readymade apology while Sherlock whirled away towards the boxes. John still tried, "So this is….ugh…."

"Well obviously I can straighten things up," Sherlock blustered. He hurried to move files and knifed a stack of envelopes to the mantel piece. "A bit."

John feeling that another try at an apology would just embarrass the man further. His eyes roamed and found a something near his flat mate. "It's a skull," he said pointing to it.

"A friend of mine," Sherlock said. He seemed to realize how odd the statement is to other people because he followed up, "When I say friend…ugh…." He left off and moved to take off his scarf.

"What do you think Doctor Watson?" asked Mrs. Hudson that had followed up behind them and started to clean some of the boxes. "There is another bed room upstairs if you'd be needing two bed rooms."

"Of course we'll be needing two," said John not understanding.

"Oh," Mrs. Hudson huffed, "Don't worry there's all sorts around here. Mrs. Turner next door got married ones," she ended off in a whisper. John looked over to Sherlock who was in the corner of the room pretending to put the books away as he listened in. John wondered what he told Mrs. Hudson for John was most exceptionally strait and they weren't even charge partners. John also wondered if the married ones were also charge partners. It was not uncommon for partners to become couples especially since they are around each other so often in their lives. Mrs. Hudson moved to the kitchen while John was pondering.

"Sherlock," she drawled in a fond voice, "The mess you made."

John's leg twinged more till he couldn't stand it. 'Bloody stairs' he thought cursing them with every foul word he learned in the army. He fluffed a pillow to sit in a sofa chair. And looked over towards his flat mate who was starting up a laptop on a very crowded desk.

"I looked you up on the internet last night." John said.

Sherlock whirled around, "Anything interesting?" he asked in a calm baritone voice.

"Found your website," pipped John, "The Science of Deduction."

"What did you think?"

John eyed Sherlock a little too long, "You said you could identify a software designer by his tie and an airplane pilot by his left thumb?"

"Yes," Sherlock drawled out, "and I can read your military career in your face and your leg and your brother's drinking habits by your mobile phone."

"How?" demanded John. Sherlock didn't answer and turned away.

"What about these suicides then Sherlock," asked Mrs. Hudson as she carried a newspaper back into the room. "Thought that be right up your street. Three exactly the same."

"Four," interceded Sherlock moving to the window after hearing a car," There's been a fourth. There is something different this time."

"A fourth…" Mrs. Hudson asked twittering.

"Where?" Sherlock demanded of a man coming up the stairs in through the open doorway. The man had graying hair and what looked to be a daily worn suit.

"Brixton, Laurelston Gardens," the man puffed out.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to get me if there wasn't something different."

"You know how they never leave notes?" asked the man to which Sherlock gave an affirmative reply. "This one did. Will you come?"

Sherlock paused in contemplation. "Who's on forensics?" he asked.

"Anderson," the grey haired man said sighing a little.

Sherlock looked away in disgust. "Anderson won't work with me."

"Well he won't be your assistant."

"I need an assistant."

"Will you come?" the man forced again.

"Not in a police car. I'll be right behind."

"Thank you" the man sighed in relief and hurrying out the room. John looked watched him go puzzled at the exchange. Meanwhile, Sherlock waited till he saw the man exit the front door till he broke out with a smile.

"Brilliant!" he yelled jumping up. "Yes, Ah! Four suicides and now a note. Ah! It's Christmas. Mrs. Hudson? I'll be late; might need some food." He walked over to pick up his coat and head to the kitchen.

"I'm your landlady dear, not your housekeeper." Mrs. Hudson explained fondly.

"Something cold will do," said Sherlock continuing like Mrs. Hudson had not said anything, "John, have a cup of tea. Make yourself at home. Don't wait up." He finished tying his scarf around his neck and hurried out the door.

"Look at him dashing about." Mrs. Hudson sighed. "My husband was just the same." John glanced at her with a slight frown, 'Is this the same husband who Sherlock sentenced to death or a different one?'. Mrs. Hudson continued, ",but you're the sitting down type. I can tell." John's irritation about his leg came to the fore front, 'I would not be sitting here if I didn't have this leg.' "I'll make you a cuppa. You just rest your leg."

John's temper peaked,"Damn leg!" He shouted out then realized what he said. "Sorry, I am so sorry. Just sometimes this bloody thing." He gave a quick grimace.

"I understand, dear," Mrs. Hudson soothed, "I've got a hip."

" A cup of tea will be lovely, thank you," John said now calm again. He let his cane slide down out of his hand and he reached for a newspaper behind his arm.

"Just this once dear, I'm not your house keeper," Mrs. Hudson called back from the kitchen as John smoothed out the paper.

"A couple of biscuits too; if you got it," John requested distractingly.

"Not your housekeeper!" called back Mrs. Hudson. John wasn't listening for on the front page he spotted an article about the suicides Sherlock and the detective was talking about earlier. A small photo on the side featured the detective and underneath proclaimed, " DI Lestrade, in charge of the investigation". Just then John heard a noise.

"You're a doctor," the voice said slowly startling John out of his examining. John looked towards the door. There stood Sherlock fiddling with his glove," In fact, you're an army doctor." John hurriedly placed the paper down on the armrest.

"Yes," John said shortly clearing his throat as he grabbed his cane and hoisted himself out of the chair. He turned to face Sherlock who was still in the door way.

"Any good?" inquired Sherlock.

John feeling this was a test answered, "Very Good."

"Seen a lot of injured then," Sherlock lightly quipped as he walked forward. "Violent deaths?"

John stood his ground, "mmm...Yes."

"Bit of trouble to I bet."

"Of course; yes. Enough to last for a lifetime, far too much."

Sherlock paused, "Want to see some more?"

"Oh god yes," said John happily before his mind caught up. Then, he hurried after Sherlock who walked quickly to the door. As John hopped down the stairs he called back," sorry Mrs. Hudson. I'll skip the tea. Pop out."

"Both of you?" she inquired. ,

Sherlock paused and walked back, "Possible suicides. Four of them? Simply sitting at home when there is finally something fun going on!" He gave Mrs. Hudson's shoulders a little shake and noisily gave her a kiss on the check.

"Look at you all happy. It's not decent," grumbled Mrs. Hudson. "Do you need to recharge before you go?"

"Who cares about decent? The _game_, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" said Sherlock happily as he turned around and walked back through the door ignoring the question. When he got to the street, He turned and raised his right hand and called out for a Taxi. John stumbled next to him leaning heavily on his cane watching the Taxi to pull up for both of them. Sherlock quickly opened the door and slid inside of the taxi leaving John to hop in after him.

For most of the drive, John sat in silence glancing at Sherlock periodically while Sherlock texted on his phone. John wondered how he would begin on questioning Sherlock on where they were going or even, why he was asked for. Sherlock, finally, acknowledged John's glances.

"Okay, you got questions," he said with a deep breath.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John asked taking a small glance out the window at the passing sites.

"Crime scene, next," came the short answer. John paused, 'served me right. Okay then.'

"Who are you what do you do?" asked John thinking Sherlock answering this would give him his answer instead.

"What do you think?" said Sherlock in a noncommittal way.

"I'd say private detective…." John drew out to prompt Sherlock.

"But?" Sherlock prompted John instead.

"Police don't go to private detectives" was John's quick reply.

"I'm a consulting detective. The only one in the world I invented the job." Sherlock huffed out in irritation.

"What does that mean?"

"Means when the police are out of the depth, which is always, they consult me." Sherlock replied in a biting tone.

"The police don't consult amateurs." John said patronizingly. Sherlock looked over at his grin.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday I said 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' you looked surprised" drawled Sherlock.

"Yes, how did you know?" John quickly asked.

"I didn't know I saw," Sherlock drawled. "The hair cut and the way you hold yourself says military. Your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts so army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists you've been abroad, but not sunbathing. The limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand, like you've forgotten about it, so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were probably traumatic — wounded in action, then. Wounded in action, suntan; Afghanistan or Iraq."

"You said I had a therapist," said John in protest.

"You've got a psychosomatic limp. Of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother. Your phone — it's expensive, email enabled, MP3 player," Sherlock explained holding out his hand for John's phone, " But you're looking for a flat-share; you wouldn't waste money on this. It's a gift, then," Sherlock turned it over, "Scratches; not one, many over time. It's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. The man sitting next to me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. The next bit's easy, you know it already." Sherlock finished angling it towards John.

"The engraving?" John couldn't help but ask.

Sherlock waved the phone around. "Harry Watson, clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father — this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live. Unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so brother it is. Now, Clara — who's Clara? Three kisses says a romantic attachment. Expensive phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must've given it to him recently - this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble, then — six months on, and already he's giving it away? If she'd left _him_, he would've kept it. People do sentiment. But _no_, he wanted rid of it — he left _her_. He gave the phone to you that says he wants you to stay in touch." Sherlock pause, "You're looking for cheap accommodation and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife; maybe you _don't_ like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John asked confused and bewildered.

Sherlock angled the phone on its side so John could see the owner buttons and charging station. "Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection — tiny little scuff marks around the edge. Every night he goes to plug it in and charge but his hands are shaky. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see? You were right."

"_I_ was right? Right about what?" John asked digesting all the information.

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock punctuated.

John paused before looking up. "That was amazing." John breathed slowly. The cab drove on in silence for several seconds.

"You think so?" Sherlock asked slightly shocked.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary. It was _quite_... extraordinary," John reiterating his previous statement.

"That's not what people normally say," Sherlock confusingly said.

"What do people normally say?" John inquired.

"'Piss off!'"Sherlock piped with a small grin. John grinned back still thinking of Sherlock's deductions and went back to looking out the cab.

As the cab pulled up to the scene Sherlock was the first one out leaving John to crawl out behind him with a grunt.

"Did I get anything wrong?" asked Sherlock

"Harry and me don't get on, never have. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. And Harry is a drinker," John explained slowly as he walked with his cane next to him.

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything," Sherlock said narcissticly.

"Harry's short for Harriet," John said shortly.

Sherlock stopped short leaving John to walk on a bit. Sherlock grumbled put out, "Harry's your sister."

"What exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John asked ignoring him.

"Sister!"Sherlock hissed out before continuing on.

"No, seriously, what am I doing here?" John insisted.

"There's always something," Sherlock continued distractedly walking up to the police cars parked in the alleyway.

"Hello, Freak," greeted a clear voice.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade," Sherlock stated.

"Why?" the woman asked bitterly. She was a young officer who stood about 5'6" dressed in a grey jacket complete with a pencil skirt and, for an officer, un-sensible shoes.

"I was invited," Sherlock sarcastically answered her.

"Why?" she asked again not to be thrown off.

"Think he wants me to take a look," Sherlock continued sarcastically.

"Well ya know what I think don't you?" the woman said bitingly.

"Always, Sally," Sherlock answered pulling the police ribbon he was behind up and over his head. He sniffed after he passed under. "You know you didn't make it home last night," he said furrowing his eyebrows. John followed after him to the police ribbon before he stopped.

"I-I-I don- Who's this?" Sally stammered out distractingly, stopping John from moving to join Sherlock.

"Colleague of mine Doctor John Watson. Doctor Watson, Sergeant Sally Donavon, old friend," Sherlock ended with a tone that implied she was anything but.

"A colleague. How do you get a colleague? What did he follow you home?" Sally scaffold between the two of them. John had enough of her and thought his attention would be better elsewhere.

"Would it be better if I just waited?" asked John waiving towards the street behind him.

"No!" Sherlock answered shortly, grabbing the police tape and stretching it up until John could walk comfortably under. Sally glanced between the two of them before grabbing her radio from her waist.

"Freaks here bringing him in," Sally squawked over it. Sherlock, as they walked in, looked around the ground noting discrepancies that might have been missed.

As his eyes took a last skimming he paused spotting a man walking quickly towards them. "Ah, Anderson. Here we are again," Sherlock drawled.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated! Are we clear on that?" Anderson growled threateningly like a dog when someone intrudes his territory.

"Very clear. Is your wife away for long?" Sherlock asked bitingly.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out! Somebody told you that!" Anderson spit out. John could, as he studied the man before him, tell by their few sentences that they had a long history.

"Your deodorant told me that," said Sherlock shortly looking away from him.

"My deodorant." Anderson stated nonplused.

"It's for men," Sherlock teased.

"Well of course it's for men! I'm wearing it!" Anderson exclaimed

"So's Sergeant Donovan and not in the way a substitute supplier would," explained Sherlock strait faced. Anderson quickly looks behind him while John quickly looked down to hide a smirk. "Ooh... I think it just vaporized. May I go in?"

"Now look, whatever you're imply-" Anderson covered.

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat to help you recharge, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floor, going by the state of her knees," he said glancing down at them as he paused at the door of the building with a smirk before going in.

John continued after him after looking at Sally. He felt a little sympathetic to her, but he made no comment towards her. After all, they did start their war with words first.

Sherlock and John continued through a series of hallways to a room in which Lestrade was present putting on a forensic smock.

"You should wear one of these," Sherlock indicated to John pointing to a pile of them on the table. John quickly started to rifle through them

"Who's this?" inquired the DI speaking quietly to Sherlock.

"He's with me," Sherlock explained reaching for a pair of gloves in his size.

"But who is he?" insisted the DI Lestrade, while thinking that Sherlock was one thing a stranger was another.

"I said he's with me," Sherlock answered not giving up anything.

"Aren't you going to put one on?" asked John politely still getting used to the idea. When, Sherlock didn't answer, he looked away knowing he wouldn't get any and instead focused on finishing with his covering.

"So where are we?" Sherlock inquired.

"Upstairs," the DI answered. He, then, turned to make sure Sherlock's curious companion was complete before leading them out the room.

"I can give you two minutes," Lestrade stressed climbing the stairs.

"May need longer….." Sherlock drawled.

"Her name's Jennifer Wilson according to her credit cards. We're running them now for contact details. Hasn't been here long. Some kids found her," the detective summed up into a report. The odd group went up several flights of stairs where they had many officers in other rooms looking for forensics. They finally reached the room where they had a police officer standing guard. John was the last to walk in and was slightly hit with memories of other dead bodies from the woman lying face down on the floor with her hands lightly above her head.

"Shut up," came a sharp retort braking John of his memories. He slightly lifted his head to the noise.

"I didn't say anyth..." the DI denied.

"You were thinking. It's annoying," Sherlock retorted. Lestrade looked back at John with an indignant face. John had nothing to say on his future flat mate's retort looked down rubbing his head. He thought of the trouble would be if his fat-mate is this abrupt to the police on his own. John watched as Sherlock walked closer to the body and followed him slightly in the room taking in what Sherlock would do.

Sherlock twitched his head before reaching down and felt the back of the dead woman's coat with his gloves to inspect it. After, he reached to her side and grabbed a small pocket umbrella laying there and inspected it. John furrowed his eyebrows at the sight of his flat-mate's continued perusing of the clothing and jewelry beneath a pocket magnifier. Finally, Sherlock slowed to a stop after slipping one of her rings off and back on to her finger.

"Got anything?" The DI asked taking his cue.

Sherlock started to strip off the gloves. "Not much," He answered stuffing the gloves into his jacket.

"She's German," pointed out a voice behind John causing him to startle and turn. It was Anderson leaning on the door frame, "'Rache' German for revenge, she could be trying to tell us…"

Sherlock quickly moved to the door while on his phone and said, "Yes, thank you for your input," slamming the door closed.

"So she's German," thinking Sherlock's abruptness to mean Anderson was correct.

"Course she's not," Sherlock answered still punching into his hone, "She's from out of town though. Intending to stay in London for one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far so obvious."

"Sorry obvious?" John asked hearing the last statement.

"What about the message?" said Lestrade still stuck on why the woman was still not German as pointing out to her message.

"Doctor Watson, what do you think?" Sherlock asked ignoring the detective.

"About the message?" asked John startled on why he had to give his input and why Sherlock ignored the detective.

"About the body, you're a medical man," Sherlock pointed out.

"We have a whole team outside," protested Lestrade.

"They won't work with me," Sherlock said smugly.

"I'm breaking every rule letting you in here," the detective grumped.

"Yes, because you need me," Sherlock pointed out. John looked back to the detective.

"Yes, I do," he answered giving up, "God help me.

"Doctor Watson," said Sherlock loudly to gain John's attention.

"Hmm?" John hummed pulling himself to face Sherlock before realizing what was asked of him. He then turned his head back quickly to Lestrade.

"Oh do what he says, help yourself," Lestrade huffed before going to the door and opening it. "Anderson, keep everyone out for a couple of minutes." John heard as he followed Sherlock to the body.

"Well?" Sherlock prompted him.

"What am I doing here?" John questioned instead.

"Helping me make a point."

"I'm supposed to be helping you pay the rent," said John shortly

"Yes but this is more fun," Sherlock ducking his head.

"Fun? There's a woman lying dead," John huffed.

"Perfectly sound analysis, but I was hoping you go deeper," Sherlock said teasing John out. John gave up and laid his cane down. He angled himself onto his knees so he had full use of his hands. He first checked around her mouth and finally her hands which are usually the first places to show signs of any illness related to death.

"Yep," he said getting up. By that time Lestrade had entered the room. "Asphyxiation, probably, passed out, choked on her own vomit. I can't smell any alcohol on her. Could have been a seizure, possibly drugs?"

"You know what it was. You've read the papers," reasoned Sherlock.

"Well she's one of the suicides, number four?" John drawn out.

"Sherlock, two minutes I said. I need anything you got," said the Lestrade annoyed.

"Victim is in her late 30's, professional person going by her clothes. I'm guessing something in the media going by the frankly alarming shade of pink. Travelled from Cardiff today intending to stay for only one night going from the size of her suitcase," rattled Sherlock getting up.

"Suitcase?" asked Lestrade wondering where suitcase came from since there was one in the building that his team found.

"Suitcase, yes. She's been married for at least 10 years to her supplier, but not happily. She's had a string of lovers, but none of them knew she was married because she was a receiver." John remembered this fact; each pairing was paired up because the energies between them were compatible. The more intunned a pairing was the better the energy would "taste" to the receiver. If another receiver was to acquire the energy from the same supplier the energy would taste off from the connection of the first receiver. However, this did not go both ways as suppliers could not taste. John also knew the only ones to touch a person's lips because of this was their partner, whom it was common they married because of this or the occasional adventurous lover, though this was rare and lovers often showed their affection differently if they are not energy partners.

"Oh for God's sake. If you're just making this up!" Lestrade protested.

"Her wedding ring: ten years old at least. Rest of her jewelry's been regularly cleaned but not her wedding ring. State of a marriage right there. The inside of the ring is shiny but the outside? That means it's regularly removed. The only polishing it gets is when she works it off her finger. So for work: look at her nails; she doesn't work with her hands. So, what or rather who does she remove her rings for? Clearly not one lover. She'd never be able to sustain the fiction of being single over that amount of time. So more than likely a string of them. "

"That's brilliant," breathed John. "Sorry"

"Cardiff?" asked Lestrade to draw Sherlock's attention back.

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"It's not obvious to me." John said slightly in awe.

"Dear God. What is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so _boring_," Sherlock sneered slightly, "Her coat is slightly damp; she's been in heavy rain in the last few hours. No rain anywhere in London in that time. Under her coat collar is damp too; she's turned it up against the wind. She's got an umbrella in her left-hand pocket, but it's dry and unused: not just wind, strong wind, too strong to use her umbrella. We know from her suitcase that she was intending to stay overnight, so she must have come a decent distance, but she can't have traveled more than two or three hours because her coat still hasn't dried. So, where has there been heavy rain and strong wind within the radius of that travel time? Cardiff," he finished pantomiming to each of his deductions following by showing the DI his phone.

"That's fantastic!" John exclaimed.

"Do you know you do that out loud?" Sherlock asked curious.

"Sorry. I'll shut up." John embarrassingly stated.

"No, it's... fine." Sherlock said with a slight smile.

"Why do you keep saying suitcase?" Lestrade asked braking up their powwow together.

"Yes, where is it? She must have had a phone or an organizer. Find out who Rachel is," Sherlock said distractingly as he remembered what he was looking around the room for earlier while he was stating his deductions.

"She was writing Rachel?" Lestrade asked wondering why he got the word Rachel.

_"No,_ _she was leaving an angry note in German_, of course she was writing Rachel!" Sherlock said frustrated. "The only other word it can be. Question is why did she wait till she was dying to write it?"

"So how do you know, she had a suitcase?" Lestrade asked trying to get to get back to his other question.

'Back of her right leg: tiny splash marks on the heel and calf, not present on the left. She was dragging a wheeled suitcase behind her with her right hand. Don't get that splash pattern in any other way. Small case going by the spread. Case that size, woman this clothes conscious could only be an overnight bag. So we know she was staying only one night. Now where is it? What have you done with it?" Sherlock said bending down to look at it further.

"There wasn't no case," Lestrade answered quietly.

"Say that again." Sherlock punctuated looking up.

"There wasn't a case. There was never any suitcase," explained the detective.

Sherlock rushed up shouting out the door and running down a flight of stairs to the next landing, "Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?"

"Sherlock, there was no case!" called down Lestrade leaving John the only one back in the room.

"They take the poison themselves. The chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs even you lot couldn't miss them," explained Sherlock franticly as John joined Lestrade on the landing outside the door.

"Right thanks, and?" grumbled the detective down to Sherlock.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how, but there are not suicides their serial killings. We got ourselves a serial killer, love those. There's always something to look forward to," he said pausing on another floor.

"Why are you saying that?" Lestrade said as Sherlock bounded down another flight.

"Her _case_," groaned out Sherlock, "Common, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here and they took her case. So the killer must have driven her here, forgot the case was in the car."

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." John said reasonably.

"No, she never got to the hotel, look at her hair! She color coordinates her lipstick and the shoes. She'd never left any hotel with her hair still looking...Oh... Oh!" Sherlock exclaimed as a thought came to him.

"Sherlock?"

"What is it what?" asked both of the men up stairs concerned.

"Serial killers always are hard. Have to wait for them to make a mistake," Sherlock excitingly muttered.

"Can't just wait!" Lestrade protested.

'Done waiting. Look at her, really look at her!" John had enough and looked back toward the room as Lestrade still stared down towards Sherlock, "Houston, we have a mistake! Get on to Cardiff, find out who Jennifer Wilson's family, supplier, and friends were, find Rachel!"

"Of course, yeah, but what mistake?" groaned out Lestrade in a shout. Sherlock had reached the base floor by this time.

He ran back and shouted back up to them, "PINK!" Then, he raced back out the door leaving the two men staring down at an empty stair well.

* * *

Reminder to please review. Thanks go out to people I got alerts from for this story so far: **KlainersGunnaKlaine** (for favoriting and following), **wello12309** (following), **JenPek** (following), **Burnedoutpixels** (following), **waterbaby84** (following), **silverXshadow** (following), **Zara231** (favoriting), **katrinamzack** (following), **IamSHERlocked4ever** (following), and finally, **JLlama** (following).


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